


Sonnet #36

by lesnuffles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:19:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesnuffles/pseuds/lesnuffles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“‘Let me confess that we two must be twain, / although our undivided loves are one: / so shall those blots that do with me remain, / without thy help, by me be borne alone…'”</p>
<p>“Tea is ready,” Sherlock announced, interrupting Victor’s umpteenth reading of the Bard’s work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonnet #36

**Author's Note:**

> My entrance for the _Viclock Gift Exchange_ ; written for **lordmorans** , hope you'll enjoy it~!

It had been a long work day, indeed, when Victor Trevor was finally able to turn the small card sign in the library window to ‘Closed.’ He took a quick glance at the gray, rainy day outside. Silence had covered the building, and, with a sigh, he finally made his last trip down the aisles, picking up the books that had been left on the study tables and flipping through the pages of each once before putting it back in its place.  
   
They were all friends to him, and he knew each one’s place. Of course he did, what with all the effort he’d put forth to create his little library; the project had finally come to life after so many years of work once he’d gotten out of university.  
   
And there he was, a penniless librarian too fond of his books to admit that this was not the life he’d imagined for himself so many years ago. He sat on the table next to the window, picking up the last abandoned book, and—oh.  
   
 _Sonnets_ , by William Shakespeare.  
   
His fingers ran over the words he knew by heart. He felt a strange lump in his throat as he stopped at one page in particular, staring at the words with a rueful smile on his face. He ran a hand through his copper hair and started to read.

   
 _‘Let me confess that we two must be twain,_  
 _Although our undivided loves are one:_  
 _So shall those blots that do with me remain,_  
 _Without thy help, by me be borne alone…_ ’  
 

*

   
 _“…In our two loves there is but one respect,_  
 _Though in our lives a separable spite…”_  
   
“Tea is ready,” Sherlock announced, interrupting Victor’s umpteenth reading of the Bard’s work.  
   
Victor, who was standing on the couch, book in hand in front of him, smiled and jumped down to join Sherlock in the kitchen. “Mn, is it really, or were you just trying to shut me up?” he asked with a grin, peeking over Sherlock’s shoulder to check on the kettle.  
   
“Both.”  
   
Victor chuckled and kissed Sherlock’s cheek before taking two cups from the cupboard. Sherlock turned off the stove and carefully slipped the tea into the boiling water with the same exactness he would have used with his chemicals. When Sherlock brought the tea to the table, Victor was petting his brindled bull terrier, who was energetically licking Victor’s hand from his position on his lap.  
   
“Put him down when we’re drinking,” Sherlock warned him, but he couldn’t help smiling, his eyes following the dog’s excitedly-moving tail.  
   
“That’s rude of you,” Victor replied. “What if Gladstone just wanted a taste of your amazing tea?” He gave Sherlock a scandalized look, which was returned only with raised eyebrows. “Oh, alright, alright. Here you go, Billy—“  
   
“Billy?” Sherlock asked, staring as Victor put Gladstone on the ground. He immediately raced to Sherlock’s ankle and began rubbing against it.  
   
“William Gladstone, of course,” Victor replied, with a smile.  
   
Sherlock blinked.  
   
“William Ewart Gladstone? Four-time Prime Minister under Queen Victoria? Doesn’t ring any bells to you?”  
   
“Should it?” Sherlock asked, but Victor just laughed and kissed his cheek.  
   
“Guess I couldn’t exactly expect you to catch the reference, love,” he said, sipping his tea slowly and closing his eyes. “Oh, perfect tea as always.”  
   
“What I _do_ catch,” Sherlock replied, after a sip of his own cup, “is an overabundance of Williams in the list of your interests.”  
   
Victor grinned. “Maybe I’ve got a fetish.”  
   
Sherlock frowned. “Oh, do you?”  
   
“Are you jealous of my dog, honey?” Victor asked, grinning.  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
   
Victor’s smile grew. “Want to know which William is my favourite?”  
   
“I’m a bit afraid of the answer,” Sherlock replied, glancing at the book, which was opened upside down on the table to keep Victor’s place. He didn’t believe in dog-earing books. “What were you reading?”  
   
Victor’s face immediately lit up. “Oh, so you  _were_  listening to me! Shakespeare, sonnet 36, hold on—”  
   
Sherlock only just had the time to regret his decision before Victor finished his tea in one gulp, took the book in hand, and started reading again.  
   
 _“…Which though it alter not love's sole effect_  
 _Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight…”_  
   
“I don’t understand you,” Sherlock interrupted. Victor looked up at him questioningly. “Why do you like… this?”  
   
Victor put the book down with a sigh. “Because, William…” he started, choosing his words carefully. “Your clever namesake used to put emotion on paper in a way that no one else has been able to match since. This one, for example—“  
   
Sherlock listened carefully as he threw himself on the sofa, followed not far behind by Gladstone. He jumped on Sherlock’s knees, looking for a petting. Sherlock gave Gladstone a few passes with his hand, and he started to relax under the touch.  
   
Victor smiled sweetly in their direction before joining them on the sofa, the book still in his hands. “One of the separation sonnets, see. Two lovers who are forced to separate, knowing their love will never truly end.”  
   
Sherlock leaned on Victor’s shoulder, glancing at the page and fiddling with Victor’s unbuttoned shirt. “Why should they separate if they love each other?” he asked with a frown.  
   
Victor hesitated for a moment. “Because sometimes life takes you places you don’t expect. And he—the poet—loves his companion so much that when he understands his presence would only bring shame and pain on his loved one, he decides to leave.”  
   
“That’s hardly fair.” Sherlock stopped playing with Victor’s shirt. “Did he ask for his lover’s opinion before making his decision?”  
   
“Don’t you think the lover would have tried to stop the poet, if that’d been the case?” he replied after a short pause. “When you love someone that much, you want whatever’s best for them, even if it means hurting yourself.”  
   
Sherlock remained silent as he reread the lines of the poem. Victor patted his hair before speaking again, his voice lowered.  
   
“After all, love will never die, mn? The poet’s affection will live forever in his words so his lover will always know how much he would do for him.”  
   
“Little comfort,” Sherlock murmured before nestling his head against Victor’s neck. “You wouldn’t leave me that way, would you?”

Victor kissed his forehead before answering. “I would never do that to my favorite William.”  
 

*

   
 _‘I may not evermore acknowledge thee,_  
 _Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,_  
 _Nor thou with public kindness honour me,_  
 _Unless thou take that honour from thy name…’_  
   
Sherlock closed the book in one movement, staring at the cover for a moment. His breath was strangely heavy before he finally let himself fall into his armchair, blankly staring at the walls of Baker Street.  
   
Chance had made him find the book that day as he cleaned up old things from his university days, and he’d accidentally found an old box he’d completely forgotten about. A sketchbook, old slides, bugs preserved in amber, and a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets, marked with a yellowish bookmark.  
   
He sighed, steepling his hands under his chin. With the same rapidity it had taken him to try and erase those memories, they quickly climbed back up into his mind, strong, indestructible. If only he could have deleted them from his life—  
   


  
 _But do not so, I love thee in such sort,_  
 _As thou being mine, mine is thy good report._  



End file.
